The plucked rose sings
naked before hungry eyes.
The stem's betrayal
is yielding her body.
She seeks her original face
before the petals were singled out
in broken sweetness.

 

The rose knows the mud
from which she comes-
a mixed sameness
of ore and darkness.
The rose is the earth's face
formed from dust
rising to praise the sun
knowing that it must fall
like all things made from dust.

 

My faceless dream
was given a shadow
wet with color.
The tight bud opens
and dark heart-petals
spill the self . . .

Tell me-
Why do I write about roses?